


Unconventional Methods

by centaari



Category: Star Wars: The Clone Wars (2008) - All Media Types
Genre: AKA The Force Knows Better, All Things Considered Obi-Wan Has A Pretty Good Time, Anal Fingering, Aside From The Dubious Consent, Disembodied Hands, Drooling, Dubious Consent But I'm Tagging Non-Con To Be Safe, Handjobs; (With The Force!), Have I Mentioned That The Consent Is Very Dubious?, Of The Force, Orgasm Denial, Other, Overstimulation, obviously
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-03
Updated: 2021-03-03
Packaged: 2021-03-16 08:48:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,393
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29822400
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/centaari/pseuds/centaari
Summary: Obi-Wan swipes off his datapad and puts it down, and, for a moment, he wants to try and focus on the sensation, to try and feel it out, somehow, find out what it is. He closes his eyes and can't help but hum in contentment as the Force itself curls, soothing, against his mind. It's not unusual, these days, for it to reassure him every bit as often as to warn him. He appreciates it.He also isn't that far gone. He may be sleep-deprived at the moment, but there is alsodefinitely a hand on his cheek.
Relationships: Obi-Wan Kenobi & The Force
Comments: 2
Kudos: 50





	Unconventional Methods

**Author's Note:**

> me at me: what can i say except you're welcome  
> i enjoy normally composed men being brought to incoherence! :)

Obi-Wan has done his best, honestly, to juggle being a general and a Jedi at the same time. He's done the very best he can, he's sure of that. In battle, he holds off on outright killing sentient opponents; if there is a conflict which can be won with words, he does not touch his lightsaber; off the field, he walks among his men, he sits with them, talks, listens; he spends time with them and his fellow Jedi, those are the only redeemable moments of this entire war, even if they're just two-click breaks between strategy meetings.

Regrettably, he also has to cut down on some things if he wants to keep all that going smoothly. Like sleep. And being healthy with his caf consumption. And eating vegetables.

Admittedly, the last part isn't very difficult. Most of his troops have probably not eaten an unprocessed vegetable in their life (eternally cursed be the nutrition blocks given to them for meals), so they can't really criticize Obi-Wan for it. Not that it's a good thing, of course. They'll change that, once the damned war is over. They'll change a lot of things, in fact.

Obi-Wan smiles a little before realizing he's gotten distracted from his tasks. The smile fades, but he focuses on the datapad again, still. The flimsy is mindless work, only checking over what his men need to resupply, but it needs to be done anyway. It is getting late, according to Coruscant local time - but Obi-Wan argues that he isn't  _ used _ to Coruscant local time yet, they'd only recently propelled themselves into hyperspace and it is, by all means, still rather early on the planet they just left. So he is perfectly available to catch up on his work, thank you very much.

He does have to admit that it isn't the most rewarding task. Quite boring, to be exact, and it's so warm, in his quarters. A welcome change from the cold climate of their  campaign, and Obi-Wan finds himself enjoying it quite a bit. He hopes everyone else on the ship feels the same way too, honestly - they all need a break.

Which is why he should stop getting distracted and _ finish those forms. _

He shakes his head and pulls himself closer to the table, brushing off the strand of hair on his forehead and leaning down again.

_Three cases of munitions for the torpedo launchers. Replacement parts for the ruined turbolaser cannon_. Obi-Wan scrunches up his nose. At this rate, they'd be better off replacing the cannon altogether. He adds a sentence or two noting their lack of great attachment to the old cannon, if the question arises, and moves on. _Regular rations to be restocked upon landing on Coruscant._ He smiles, recognizing a non-urgent request for the type of caf his battalion seems to prefer. He signs that one quickly. They deserve that. That and so much more.

Obi-Wan isn't sure how long he reads and signs them for until his brain just stops processing the words. He finds himself reading the same sentence over and over again - his own, he's pretty sure, he was convinced he'd made a mistake here somewhere, but finding it is hopeless, like this. He sighs, raises his hand to brush some hair off his cheek, and -

His hair isn't long enough to fall over his eyes, much less any lower.

Obi-Wan startles, a little, at the warmth on the side of his face. It feels... external, like there's physically something there, but he brushes his fingers down from his eye to his jaw and finds nothing but his own skin. 

Well, it's certainly different from the usual see-bugs-in-the-corner-of-your-vision sleeplessness, he supposes, and tries his best to ignore it and read on.

He makes it a report and a half in. The - something - on his cheek feels like it's caressing him, almost, pressing on. It feels - like a hand, almost, like someone is cupping his cheek.

Yes, he decides, that's what it feels like. A hand. Most certainly an illusion. He should really consider standing up, now, lest any other imaginary ghost decides to start petting him.

Truly, how strange.

Obi-Wan swipes off his datapad and puts it down, and, for a moment, he wants to try and focus on the sensation, to try and feel it out, somehow, find out what it is. He closes his eyes and can't help but hum in contentment as the Force itself curls, soothing, against his mind. It's not unusual, these days, for it to reassure him every bit as often as to warn him. He appreciates it.

He also isn't that far gone. He may be sleep-deprived at the moment, but there is also  _ definitely a hand on his cheek _ . As if responding to his conclusion, the hand seems to flatten against his skin, fingers splayed as the thumb, presumably, brushes softly under his eye. He squeezes his eyes shut tighter, wary. The last thing he needs right now is for his eye to be poked out by a blasted hallucination.

The Force doesn't stir. Doesn't warn. By all means, it seems wholly - content, hardly even reacting to Obi-Wan's confusion. It speaks of the same things  _ \- safe, warm, sleepy _ \- as it did before. So this must be something of a hallucination.

Perhaps… Just this once, perhaps he should go and lie down. Take a nap. Forty-five minutes and not a second more, but it would be a nap nonetheless. He knows people see things when they don't get enough sleep - maybe he's crossed that line as well, though he isn't sure how that happened - he's definitely slept less before.

Mulling all that over while trying to ignore the undeniable warmth of a hand on his cheek, he stacks the datapads on the side of the table, pushes back his chair and stands up - and, immediately, there's a similar warmth on his waist.

Obi-Wan stills. Looks down.

There is absolutely nothing there -

But, as he looks closer, he sees it. The fabric of his shirt is slightly displaced at the edges of where he feels the contact. This, of course, does not do much for Obi-Wan's nerves. Almost like a reward for his noticing of the hand, another one presses down on his shoulder, a grounding, heavy weight. It rubs over his shoulder and across his back, firm but by no means painful, and Obi-Wan grits his teeth as it circles around a tense muscle or another.

Okay, usually hallucinations lack the means to physically displace matter. There's his conclusion: this isn't a hallucination. Follow-up questions: what is that,  _ why _ is that, and, perhaps most importantly - what in the  _ world _ .

Explaining nothing but confirming his thoughts again, the hand on his shoulder pushes his tunics to the sides and they fall over his arms. In a quiet protest, he pulls them back up. Suddenly, the Force feels very amused. Perhaps something is happening on the ship. Not that Obi-Wan can go check, really, because his tunics are off his body once more in perhaps two seconds. Before he can grab them again, a little more insistently this time, the hand resumes the rubbing over his back, the knuckles hard against his skin. Obi-Wan exhales, grabbing onto the back of the chair and trying to ignore the oddly pleasant feeling.

He makes a muffled noise as two more hands trail up his waist, squeezing and pressing - he can see the outlines rising underneath his shirt, the cloth pulled from his pants in a haste. They slide up and up his torso, massaging his skin with a lovely pressure.

He needs to get to his bed, to do something, but -

It's like every time he thinks of moving, more hands appear from thin air and press against him, on his hips, first, on his thighs, he can feel one cupping his neck. To his own surprise, he leans into the touch, just a bit. It's undeniable that it isn't unpleasant, but he definitely shouldn't be doing something like this. Maybe - Maybe he caught something on the planet, maybe the medics could help -

_ It's okay. It's okay _ .

Obi-Wan blinks. The Force doesn't really have a voice, instead it just sort of lets one know what it wants them to know, has the words surface directly in a Force-sensitive's mind, but why would it be talking to him now? It's most certainly not okay. He doesn't know what's going on, and -

_ Safe. Safe. Warm. _

As it speaks to him, he feels exactly that, all of a sudden - the hands aren't restraining him so much as they are holding him, and their hold isn't possessive or hurtful, it's just - protective, a little curious, the way the Force always feels.

Obi-Wan stills, completely frozen over. So is that, then - the Force? Are these hands of the Force?

He has no idea why the Force would be… doing something like this, or why to him, especially. He knows why it feels pleasant, now, he is of the Force and the Force never hurts what is borne of it, but he has no idea why this is even happening.

Perhaps he doesn't need an answer, is one suggested to him, and the pressure seems so much closer now that he knows where it's coming from. He opens his mouth and finds his breath gone shallow.

The hands are so thorough, everywhere on him, that he barely even notices one crawling down his stomach, brushing its thumb alongside the bones of his hips and - sliding underneath his waistband. His breath hitches as he jolts back at the sudden touch on his cock - perhaps, he thinks, his mind racing, perhaps that was an accident. 

That seems to be it, as the hand slowly slips back up and is placed on his stomach, still pushing lightly. He goes where he's guided, if a little lost - and, a moment later, his back hits the wall. That's certainly not optimal, he thinks to himself, bringing his hands down to push himself away - unfortunately, all he succeeds in doing is making two more hands grab his wrists and pin them there.

Oh, lovely.

To top that off, the light pressure against the front of his pants returns, the feel of the Force mixing into deeper curiosity. 

Oh,  _ lovely _ .

No, he decides, either the Force picked up on his shock at its touch before, or it's is fully aware of what it's doing. The hand moves back and forth alongside his cock, rubbing at it through his pants, and Obi-Wan gasps at the sudden flare in his gut, and still the Force does not warn him of anything, further solidifying the fact that it's not just some hallucinations' hands that are helping themselves to his body.

He should be - well, by all means, he should be doing  _ something _ other than just standing there and letting it happen. He should call for - his men, perhaps, Cody - 

_ Be still, _ the Force whispers, as he feels the warm press of a palm against his collarbone.  _ Be still, calm yourself. You are safe. You are safe. _

He is safe. His mind has to agree with it, there's truth in it. He doesn't feel hurt, it feels rather good, actually - 

Force, why does it feel good? There's nothing there, a phantom press of hands and nothing more.

In spite of everything, he feels himself slowly growing hard, grits his teeth. The hands will take that as encouragement, but is it his fault that they seem to know just what to do?

He appears to have hit the nail on the head. The palm on his cock doesn't relent and Obi-Wan makes a rather embarrassing noise when the hand is wrapped around him, around the loosened cloth of his pants. He can still feel the warmth of the hand, the firmness with which it grips him - and twists, Obi-Wan skipping over a breath at that. Even through his pants, he feels the warmth of the hand; and he can sense his own precome staining his briefs, just around where its hold is.

He squirms, flushed with embarrassment, and the hand lets go of him for a moment - before it's coming from above and slipping underneath his waistband again.

Obi-Wan can't help it, he lets out a keen as the hand takes him, wraps its fingers around him, smears his precome down. He's practically slicked himself up like this, but even the slight friction feels electrifying as the hand strokes him in languid movements.

He tries his honest best to not let his thoughts float away into a hazy nervousness. To conclude it all, the Force wants this, apparently, it feels very warm and very safe, and he can't call for anyone because - well, after all, what in the seven hells could Cody or any of his men do about this, really? He would just humiliate himself, honestly. There would be no coming back from that. He cringes just imagining it - his men seeing him like this, helpless and gasping and wet with invisible hands all across his body - and the Force glows with amusement.

"Oh, that's funny to you, is it," he mutters, hissing through his teeth at the press of a finger on the head of his cock, ceasing to breathe altogether for a moment as it rubs against the slit, almost as if it's oblivious to what it's doing.

It would make sense. The Force probably hardly knows what sexual favors are, it just sees him reacting like this and, for some reason, wants to undo him, just to see, perhaps, what would happen.

Well, he  _ is _ a Jedi, he's supposed to be following the Force, and if the Force wants to - use him like this, or something, what can he do? Their purpose is to submit to its will, and, really, it's not that it feels bad, he's just, surprised, in a way, by how warm and how familiar this feels in spite of him never quite experiencing it like this before -

The presence of the hands on him fades, very slightly.  _ Not using _ , the Force argues, its warmth like a breath against the back of his neck. He shivers.  _ Only meaning to help. Trust us. _

Obi-Wan sighs and bows his head down. Well, if there's one thing he's not running low on these days, it's trust, he thinks to himself sourly. But the Force is - the Force is infinite trust, and infinite care; and infinite suffering, of course, and infinite malice, but something tells him he's currently under the management of the former rather than the latter.

He gets an affectionate, if exasperated, response from all around him, and the press of the hands returns. Yes, definitely the former. That much is evidenced by the touch that is - pleasing, to him, and comfortable. He feels as a hand threads its fingers through his hair and drags his head back very very lightly, he feels another wrap around his neck, the squeeze of it barely even noticeable. He feels them on his chest again, then rubbing up and down his flanks, and there are two that slide over his thighs and -

He squirms, and they retreat. That much seems to at least be in his control. They don't let him dwell on it for long, however, as the hand around his cock starts a quicker pace, making him drop his mouth open, panting as it strokes him with no pause, only spurred on by his reaction, and oh, Force -

Obi-Wan hasn't touched himself in Force-knows-how-long. He hasn't  _ been _ touched in… longer. Perhaps he's a little pent up. Perhaps it feels a little better than he should and - perhaps he rocks forward, just a tiny bit. Perhaps he wants, somewhere deep inside him, for the hands on his hips to yank him backward and keep him still, to make him watch them stroke his cock this quickly, to feel something - someone - pressed against him, and hell, Obi-Wan knows such thoughts are not very Jedi-like, but he  _ wants _ . He wants so bad he's aching, so bad that, slowly, his shallow breaths begin coming out colored by quiet gasps of pleasure that betray him.

He glances around, eyes half-lidded, still expecting to see someone, something behind him or in front of him, but there's still no one there are all, just him and the touch of so many - so many hands on his body, their skin on his maddening, staggeringly good. 

He doesn't even feel himself move forward, buck into the touch, try and get more of it, deeper - he does, however, feel it when the hand on his cock pulls back and stills. He blinks, a little dazed, and - it strokes him, once, so firmly he grunts, but the touch doesn't come again.

"What," he tries, cut off as the hand drags itself against him once more, shaft to tip, and stops again. 

Kriff, it wants  _ him _ to move, to fuck the hand that's offered to him. Too bad, honestly. Obi-Wan is too stubborn - and rather too embarrassed - to do that, standing pointedly still.

_ And yet it would feel wonderful, wouldn't it? _

Obi-Wan grits his teeth, closing his eyes for a moment. That doesn't help him at all. He knows it's telling the truth, he shakes with the need of it, but, but -

_ It would feel so, so good.  _ Fuck, Obi-Wan  _ knows _ that. He knows. But he - he cannot, it would be unbecoming of him, indecent - 

Though, truly, can it get any more indecent than this? His entire body is tense in an effort to keep him still, the sweat is making whatever layers he's got left on stick to his skin, and the circle of fingers is touching the head of his cock, just lightly.

He wants to move. He wants, so bad.

He doesn't remember why he shouldn't.

The first thrust of Obi-Wan's hips is desperate, a little sharp, but the hand takes him beautifully, the way he hasn't been touched in months, years - and he stops because something in him has to, but oh, Force, he doesn't want to, he doesn't want to at all.

_ Again _ , the voice permits him, and he does it without thinking, he moves, and the hand meets him, and he does it  _ again _ , and again, and again - 

He ruts into its grip, panting and rolling his hips in uneven jerks forward, chasing its motions. He can hardly get enough air like this, honestly, the movements a continuous blaze up his spine.

_ Good. Good. You're good. _

He freezes, then, a little startled at the heat that climbs so rapidly in his gut, but the hand doesn't. It strokes him, quick and steady, and he clenches his jaw to keep himself from making noise. He presses his back against the wall, but only succeeds in trapping himself further as the hand gets him off with surprising eagerness, its touch just as encasing on the rest of his body, his legs, his arms, his stomach and his face -

With a groan as quiet as he can manage, he tumbles over his peak, trembling and suddenly glad he's standing against a solid surface. For a moment, his mind is empty for the first time in a long while. For a moment, he feels nothing but a heated numbness across his entire body. For a moment, nothing exists, and Obi-Wan can breathe.

Then, Obi-Wan blinks himself back to reality. The Force did  _ not _ just give him a handjob. Those things do not happen. Not even in all those corny eroticas written about the Jedi Order that every self-respecting Jedi denies the existence of. The Force does not -

But the hands on his body are still there, gentle, a thumb brushing up and down his hip. As if to prove him wrong, one slides down his stomach to brush against his cock one more time. Almost softly, playfully. Then, it takes him in hand again, the sensation light and unimposing - but he's so sensitive, still.

"Wait, wait," he mutters helplessly, his hand passing through nothing but still successfully batting away some of the touch. "Wait, I just - I just came. Let me rest."

_ No time,  _ the whispers explain, the touch returning swiftly to his overheated skin.  _ We mustn't delay _ .

"Delay - what?" he breathes, but gets no answer. Instead, the two hands on his inner thighs spread his legs slightly, and the ones on his waist nudge him forward with a gentleness he did not expect, they lead him a few stuttering steps back to his table and press his hands down there by the wrists, effectively bending him forward, just the slightest bit. Perhaps for leverage, but he feels so exposed like this, vulnerable, a little like he's been cornered by someone. 

It is not… a bad feeling, exactly. The Force seems to read this out from him, and then there are more hands, it's like they don't want a single inch of him uncovered, he's being touched  _ everywhere _ -

He gasps as the hands all but grope him, just a little rougher with their touch, rubbing his chest and grabbing his ass, making him spread his legs further and lean down lower, but at least they're distracting him from the very much overwhelming sensation of the hand on his cock, moving still. 

That's when he feels it. One of the hands - there is something resting against his entrance, slim, most likely a -

The finger hardly waits to trace his rim, pressing inside him. Obi-Wan sucks a breath in as it slides in with ease, long and slicked up, somehow. For a long few seconds it just, stays there, squirming the slightest bit, as if testing him - and then retreats, to the first knuckle, before pushing in again.

It starts slow, but repetitive, and Obi-Wan is devastatingly aware of its touch inside him, pressing itself to his walls as it makes its way deeper. He tries to shut himself off and compose himself again, he tries to bite back the noise that keeps rising in his throat, because while the circumstances may be - extraordinary, Obi-Wan can't deny that it feels - Force, it feels good. It feels like being held, all over, inside and out, and it's like the hands know just what to do, just how he likes it, better than Obi-Wan himself.

And he's always trusted the Force, wholly and truly, and so he trusts it with this, as it pushes a second digit inside him and increases its pace, as it rubs against his cock and grounds him firmly in the moment, banishing most other thoughts.

His mouth drops open with a frankly obscene moan once the fingers press into the sensitive bundle of nerves, deep inside of him. He tries to swallow the noise and finds that he cannot, not like this, with the hands stroking his flank, grabbing his thighs, their intent clear - they must've figured out by now that he likes their touch, that he likes to be touched. He might not be proud to admit it, but they're certainly happy to use it. 

The fingers inside him pull back a little and press back in a few times before settling in and just brushing against his prostate, over and over again, rubbing against it, firm and continuous and -

"Oh,  _ Force _ -" he manages, as an exclamation more than anything - he sees white, barely feels his knees give out, though it matters little as he just slides a little lower on the table. The hands have picked out the most sensitive part of him and seem intent on taking him apart.

As if they're telling him to keep silent, the hands take his face - two cup his cheeks and one drags a thumb over his beard, slow and gentle. 

"I, ah,  _ hah _ , I can't - " he tries to explain, uselessly, between sharp gasps and quiet moans, "You're - You're too, you're being too - ah,  _ ah _ !  _ There _ , I, there - " He gives up on explanations as they don't seem to want to listen, don't even give him the courtesy to cease the fingering for a moment, they just keep stroking the spot within him and he can barely  _ breathe _ , not to mention talking - "Please, I - Ah! Ah - That, like that, it's - it's too… Ah - mmh!" He snaps his mouth shut as the hand on his chin rises to press the thumb against his lower lip, sliding across it and then pushing between them. He understands he's being loud, he does, but what the hell is he supposed to do?

Evidently the Force wants something else with him, as the fingers inside him curl up, and Obi-Wan doesn't know how he doesn't come from just that, like a lightning strike against his spine, he arches up and his mouth drops open again, but he can't even make a sound for a moment, until -

The fingers slip inside his mouth and press down on his tongue, almost gentle. Obi-Wan startles, again, with an unsteady hum of confusion. 

They move, then, shifting forward into his mouth, and feel around gently, nearly mapping out the insides of his cheeks. Strangely enough, having something in his mouth helps him focus a little, quiet down. Though still unable to stop the soft sighs that escape him with the press of the hands, Obi-Wan flattens his tongue against the fingers and coats them in saliva, flushing as he senses them squirming, curling up in his mouth, long and lively.

He feels a little calmer, like this, somehow. There's the press of knuckles against his mouth, and he figures he's really got nothing to lose, gently swiping up at them with the inner side of his bottom lip. He repeats the motion a few times, feeling, amusedly, almost like he's licking at them, in a way. The hand quivers, just the slightest bit, and Obi-Wan readies himself for - well, something, certainly.

Nevertheless, he cries out, muffled, when, suddenly, the fingers in his mouth lurch forward, shoving themselves deeper in, and the ones inside him press  _ hard _ into his prostate. He feels like, for a moment, he's made of liquid - but the damned hand disappears from his cock and he doesn't come, nearly whining in frustration. 

Then, the fingers in his mouth pull away in one quick move, pulling his head forward a little with it. He sputters, realizing that the only point of contact left is the hand in his ass, three fingers - three? - fucking into him relentlessly. Obi-Wan can't bear to close his mouth, knowing full and well that he wouldn't be able to stop the noise if he did. He pants, instead, raggedly, and tries to hold onto the table, put pressure against something, anything at all.

He can't close his mouth, he can't - even when he realizes that, what with him letting the fingers brush against his tongue, what with him pressing his wet lips against the knuckles of the hand, it's… coaxed quite a bit of saliva out of his mouth. It's humiliating, he knows, the thick of it rolling down his lips, into his beard, down to his chest, but he can't bring himself to close his mouth - he breathes quick and shallow, and he drools on himself, unable to stop it. Doesn't stop, even when the hand returns to his cock, making him cry out, a desperate, high sound.

The fingers work their way in and out of his body while the hand on his front keeps up its pace as well, and between them Obi-Wan doesn't have anywhere to retreat - if he moves forward, the hand around his cock tightens and strokes him just a little quicker, giving him what he wants but not enough of it and too much at the same time. If he rocks back, he unwittingly pushes the fingers deeper into his body, and they're happy to curl and scissor and drive him mad. He tries both, a few times, just to see which one is easier on him - but only ends up collapsing in the middle again, stuttering out a moan, too disoriented by the burning pleasure the hands keep shoving into him and around him.

The hands don't seem too bothered by the fact that he's stopped squirming around. If anything, he's all soft and pliant for them like this, easy to touch. And touch him they do, unrelenting and yet so good, and Obi-Wan isn't sure whether he's moaning or sobbing at this point, perhaps a bit of both. He leans down to press his forehead against the table and startles, muttering nonsensical strings of words, as the change lets the fingers fuck deeper in, reach his prostate again.

It uses this gladly, pressing against it with its earlier firmness, and Obi-Wan closes his eyes and trembles, and thinks that perhaps he's gone just the slightest bit mad.

The sudden grip on his sides is the last straw. The two new hands pull and push at him, making him roll his hips back and forth again, making sure he's either bucking into the hand around his cock or pressing the ones inside him deeper. He shakes his head, wordless, and it's no use.

"You're - I'll - I'm going to -" he gasps, and he doesn't really know why he's telling it that, surely it can feel it, see it from the way he gapes at the ceiling, the way he loses control of himself and arches his back.

When he comes, it's far more intense than last time, he isn't even sure what the sound he makes is called - he makes a mess of his table, now, and of himself, again. The hands leave him no time to think about clean-up though, touching him through it and more, and they, and they -

They don't  _ stop _ . The fingers cease rubbing against his prostate so much, sure, but they stay in him, curling and pulling out just for the slightest moment before pushing back inside, agonizingly slow.

The hand on his cock doesn't stop its touch, either, stroking him even as he softens and Force, Obi-Wan feels like he's on fire.

"Wait, hah - wait, wait, I can't - I can't, so quickly, wait, let me -  _ ah  _ \- " He gasps out, but only succeeds in getting stroked firmer, the fingers in him stilling deep inside, and it's almost even more maddening. "Please - please, ah! Wait, I can't, I can't do it so soon, wait, let me breathe -"

_ No more time,  _ the whispers return, though Obi-Wan can barely hear them through his own voice, choking out gasps and pleas.  _ There is no time _ .

"Please, I don't -" he manages before the thumb presses down on the slit on the head of his cock, smearing the beads of wet there, and he  _ yells _ , losing all thought for a brief moment, crying out, "Please, I can't, please!"

They hardly listen, of course, even as he falls forward onto the counter he was holding onto, propping himself up onto his elbows and resting his head against the cold surface again. His legs are tense to the point of aching, but every time he tries to relax, there's a new jolt of stinging pleasure trailing up his spine, and he strains again. He wonders distantly how long it'll take until his legs give out entirely, dropping him down, and he still imagines that, even if he fell to the floor, the hands wouldn't go anywhere; his shoulders would be pressed to the ground and his hips tilted upward for access, and it'd keep touching him like this as he wouldn't have any energy for anything else other than an occasional twitch of his legs and perhaps a weak whimper with every stroke, every push.

It's such a humiliating position to imagine - Obi-Wan groans incoherently at the thought of himself arranged in such a way, bared completely, pressed down, helpless. It… doesn't help, the fact that he doesn't think it'd be too unpleasant, that. He'd be, perhaps, in favor of it, in a way.

He just hopes that three times will be enough for the Force to decide he's been thoroughly helped, because he's very much unsure of his sanity remaining firmly within reasonable bounds after that.

The only noises leaving his throat at this point are high cries and nonsensical whimpers as he shakes, as he tries to hold himself upright, as the hands press against his chest firmly, as the hand around his cock strokes without delay, as the fingers in him push back and forth, fucking him so unbearably deeply.

It's unreal, unimaginable, too much, too much - he isn't sure he can take this, again -

And the hands still as suddenly as they started, and withdraw from him, though the ones on his shoulders, his sides and his hips keep their grips, holding him upright.

_ If it is too much, truly, it should not be overdone _ .

"No," he gasps out. The hands have left him so devastatingly empty, worked up and uncomfortable and  _ wanting,  _ and  _ needing _ . "No, no, don't - don't stop, please. Please, I- I don't know what I was saying."

There is a pause, a quiet, and he thinks, for a horrible moment, that it's gone - and he's alone again.

He reaches a hand down to - touch himself, maybe, do something to relieve this horrible emptiness he's been left with, but then, in one swift motion, the phantoms are back - and the one around his wrist that had let up previously tightens and drags his hand back to the table, pinning it there.

They haven't even done anything yet and Obi-Wan groans at just the return of the pressure. He hadn't valued it before, how good the weight on his shoulders feels, how paradoxically safe being restrained by the hands feels. 

_ Again? _ the sweet chirp of the Force asks, and Obi-Wan nods in desperation, grabbing for some sort of leverage, even though he knows the hands all over his skin will keep him grounded.

"Yes, yes, please, again - I - I'm, I'm begging you, please," he manages between his shallow breaths. He jumps, nearly, as two fingers enter him in one smooth push and go right for his prostate, pressing firmly against it and reducing him to sobbed thank-yous to the Force that were definitely meant for different occasions. This seems to amuse it, instead, and then there's the hand back on his front, except this time there's also some sort of phantom suction around the head of his cock, and he's pretty sure he's seeing stars, there's no way something can feel like this -

He can't handle much more of it, jerking forward in uneven thrusts, not that it changes anything. His mind is blissfully empty, he can't remember what he's  _ supposed  _ to think; and when he comes he sees white all around him, blinding, and, for a moment, he feels nothing at all. His cock spends only a weak trickle, but Force, it ruins him.

When he comes to, he's panting unsteadily, each breath paired with an overstimulated mewl. The hands are on him, but they're going still, now, having brought him to completion three times. 

He  _ rips _ his hand from the phantom's hold on the table, and tries his best to swat the touch on his cock away.

"Please, no more," he pleads hoarsely - his voice is all gone, shouted out. "No more."

There's no comparison to his overwhelming relief as the Force, after a moment, easily agrees,  _ No more _ . 

The presence of most of the hands fades away into a light, tingling feeling, and the ones that do stay simply brush gentle circles into the skin on his sides, his shoulders, soothing and rather nice. 

_ Safe, safe, safe. _ He isn’t sure if it’s his subconscious or the Force whispering into his mind, he doesn’t think he needs to be able to tell the difference, anyway, but all of it, he feels.  _ Warm, pleased, calmer, calm. Calm. _

Obi-Wan takes a breath, and stills, a shiver trickling down his spine as his muscles relax, finally. He feels a little lighter, somehow, in his mind, in his body. Just a little.

The touch on his wrists has disappeared, and so he pulls his hands instinctively to himself, massaging around his forearm to rub out the strain of the position they were in for a prolonged time - he forgets, however, to consider that his legs will probably not be wanting to cooperate with him, at the moment. And that is just what happens: he stumbles back with a yelp as his knees bend underneath him like the traitors they are.

The hands of the Force, however, don’t seem to have abandoned him just yet, a gentle press on his back bringing him back forward. The touch is careful, grounding, and before he can grab on the table or anything else, it eases him to the floor. He lets himself be brought down, and then, finally, the hands let go. He rests against the table, taking deep breaths, unsure if that’ll be - it, if they’re gone, and whether or not they’ll return -

_ Good fun _ , the Force remarks, amusedly, with a playfulness that soothes his worries a little.  _ Good fun _ . 

Obi-Wan laughs, wetly, despite himself. Somewhere in the back of his mind, a voice that sounds a little like his - and a little giddily guilty - agrees. Good fun… Something like it, at least. Strange, perhaps, but what isn’t, these days?

He considers, distantly, what a sight he must be, right now. Slumped against the counters with his head thrown back, tunics all hanging down by his waist and pants by his ankles. His legs are spread in perhaps the least dignified position he's been in for years, and there's definitely come on his chest and stomach, coating his skin and shirt.

Obi-Wan closes his eyes. He'll find the strength to stand and go take a shower eventually, but right now he rests, for a second, knowing himself to be a rather debauched mess at the moment.

He's just really, really glad he checked the lock on his door prior to the evening. And also, he considers, wincing as even the smallest breaths irritate his throat, perhaps it's a good thing the entire place is soundproof, too.

He might as well make use of the silence inside his head, flooded fully by a pleasurable haze, almost like a fog all around him. It helps him, a little bit, to make sense of some things.

Surely, these days, that cannot possibly hurt.

**Author's Note:**

> tfw your high general bolts out of his room in the middle of his night all disheveled and in the most chaotic 15 minutes of your life devises an (actually pretty convincing) theory about how the chancellor is a sith and also maybe trying to pull his padawan into the dark side
> 
> you politely ask him how the hell he came up with all of this and also how many death sticks he consumed beforehand
> 
> he would tell you but he doesn't think you know what "post-nut clarity" means
> 
> the force claps


End file.
